"So you want a curse removed."

 

  

Sir Andrew, the old Ranger, went to the local wizard to see about a curse.

Really, it was the son of the local wizard. The man Sir Andrew called "the wizard" had retired from public life a few years ago, and rumor had it that he had become a hermit up in the hills. He had given his remaining days to vegetables and contemplation.

"So you want a curse removed," the wizard's son repeated unnecessarily. "You'll need to tell me more."

The old Ranger spoke about obligations to his fallen comrades. He spoke about a new quest that the north winds had brought on a wolf's tongue. He spoke about the statute of limitations on responsibility. He spoke about suffering and memories and wounds that never quite close up.

"So, if I stop summoning the spirits each evening, will I be struck dead, or given everlasting crotch rot, or something like that?"

The wizard's son wasn't sure. If indeed a high quest had been visited on Sir Andrew, the Fates would cooperate in lifting his curse. But still, the formalities had to be observed. The Fates were tricky, sometimes.

"And this will cost two silver," the wizard's son said.

It was no use trying to haggle, Sir Andrew knew. He never haggled with wizards or tattoo artists.

Sir Andrew paid, and the wizard's son tossed the runes. "Yes, the Fates agree that change is needed." To be sure, he slaughtered a white chicken next. "The entrails agree."

Two nights later, the old Ranger spent the first full moon of Autumn in the wizard's Meditation Hut. The kid built a huge fire and anointed the semi-naked Ranger with olive oil. Next, he burned some herbs and made smoky circles around the old man.

Maybe it was the heat or the smoke or something really magical, but Sir Andrew seemed to see visions in the little hut. Fleeting glimpses of fire and shining owl eyes and a wolf... What did it mean? Was it even real?

When the sun rose, the old Ranger, sweltering and wearing only a loincloth, walked out to the river and sprinkled the ashes of the burned herbs into the water. He closed his eyes, spread his arms wide, and waited to receive a sign from the Fates.

Nothing happened right away. It never did when magic was involved. But after a while Sir Andrew opened his eyes and saw a badger looking at him from the opposite riverbank. He shrugged and took it as a win.

Just to be sure he hobbled down to the river near sunset with his horn. Rabbit Bane was nowhere to be seen. The old Ranger felt a sudden unaccustomed loneliness; after all, the evening ritual with the golden hawk floating on the last light was one of the few certainties in his life. Some days, after a sweaty night of dreams and recriminations - so many faces without a future - the curse was the only thing that had gotten him out of bed.

He sat on a fallen log, scarred hunting horn on his lap, and watched for Rabbit Bane to appear in the sky to sing her chirp-skwee summons into the night.

The sun set, and the first star came out. It was finished; the Fates had ignored him.

A wind came from the north. The new quest was calling.

///

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